ote, saying that of course he couldn't render the Irish
dialect, also that if they had heard it before they were to be sure and
let him know. Apparently no one had heard it before, although Breede
left the table for the telephone.

Bean kept the flapper's hand in his. And when the anecdote was concluded
everybody arose under cover of the applause, and they were in that
drawing-room again where the thing had happened.

The waster chattered volubly to every one. Grandma and the bride's
mother were in earnest but subdued talk in a far corner. Breede came to
them.

"Chap's plain dotty," said Breede. "Knew something was wrong."

"Your mother's doing," said Mrs. Breede.

"U-u-u-mm!" said the Demon. "I'll go with them."

"I shall also go with my child," said the mother. "James, you will go
too."

But Breede had acted without waiting to talk.

"Other car'll be here, 'n' I telephoned for quarters on boat. 'S full
up, but they'll manage. Chap might cut her throat."

"U-u-u-mm!" said the Demon.

"Half pas' ten," reminded Breede. "Hurry!"

Bean had accosted the waster.

"Always take fumed eggs for breakfast," he cautioned. "Of course, little
fruit an' tea an' things."

"Your father's had a sudden call to Paris. We're going with him," said
the Demon, appearing bonneted.

"What boat?" demanded the flapper in quick alarm.

"Your's," said the Demon.

"Jolly party, all together," said Bean cordially. "He coming, too?" He
pointed to the old gentleman, but this it seemed had not been thought
of.

"He better come too," insisted Bean. "I'm his young friend, and this is
indeed a happy moment. Jus' little ol' las' year's steamer."

"You're tagging," accused the flapper viciously, turning to the Demon.

* * * * *

Bean awoke late that night, believing he was dead--that he had fallen in
sleep and been laid unto his fathers. But the narrow grave was unstable.
It heaved and rolled as if to expel him.

Slowly he remembered. First he identified his present location. He was
in an upper berth of that little old steamer. Outside a little round
window was the whole big ocean and beneath him slept a man from
Hartford, Conn. He had caught the city's name on the end of the man's
steamer trunk and been enraged by it. Hartford was a city of rascals.
The man himself looked capable of any infamy. He was tall and thin, and
wore closely trimmed side-whiskers of a vicious iron gray. He regarded
Bean with